The Girlie Chronicles: Revelation, Part I

Monday, The Varmint and I went to the fertility doctor. The funny thing is that we're still on the fence about Varmintlings. (To be honest, The Varmint's leaning a little further over the fence, Humpty Dumpty-style, than I. But he's not the one that has to shoot that sucker out his nether-region, is he?!)

We sussed that since we're approaching Geezerhood and my body's never been, uh, regular, we should figure out what's up before it's too late. Just, you know, in case.

I'm holding The Varmint's paw and dragging ass into the doctor's office. I stare at the glass jars, the stainless steel countertops and shiver in the arctic tundra office temperatures.

And oh, yeah. There they are. Every girl's best friend: The stirrups. The freaking stirrups sticking out of the table like a midget coat rack. The nurse comes in, plops into the chair and asks me questions. She asks The Varmint questions. She takes pages and pages of notes. She's suspiciously upbeat and perky.

So it turns out the fertility doctor's a dude. I smile outwardly and grumble inwardly: It's sexist, I know, but I can never help thinking that a guy who chooses a profession where he's looking into vaginas all day long has to have some issues.

The doc walks in. He's skinny and tall, he smiles a lot. He sits and asks even more questions: Turns out he's got a good sense of humor. I like how he asks things my husband never had the balls to ask, the sort of questions that would make a woman of greater shame blush 15 shades of crimson, then arches one furry eyebrow and winks at me while he awaits the answer: He's a total dork about it. I relax in spite of myself.

Until he announces "Sonogram time!" like he's serving tea and cookies. Bloody hell.

The nurse wheels up a machine the size of a wet bar with a screen and a plastic-wrapped dildo-like attachment. My eyes dart back-and-forth: I'm looking for escape routes, but The Varmint's right next to me and he's deceptively fast. I'm no LaDainian Tomlinson, so I do the gyno-scoot and lie there. I start meditative breathing, not to calm myself, but to control myself from launching The Fist of Death when I hear the inevitable line, "Try to relax." Dude. YOU try to relax when some guy you just met is lubing up a nightstick and six eyes are staring at your coochie. Thank God I showered this morning.

There is some interesting art on the walls. I'll look at that. Nice kitty picture. Oooh. Look, a duck. Mmm-hmm. La-de-da-de-da. I tune back in. "And there is your uterus..." says the doctor. Wha--? I look over at the screen. And there, in fuzzy black-and-white, my girlie innards are illuminated. Now that's cool! I see why Tom Cruise bought one of these gizmos for Katie: The Varmint is rapt. We're so intrigued, we both forget Doctor Dildo's "down there" with his PlayStation joystick.

The screen slides up and - whoa! "Hey! What's that?" I ask.

"That," says the Doc, obviously pleased with the question, "Is your ovary." He frowns. "Uh oh," he says, surprised.

"Uh oh?" we reply. "What uh-oh?!"

We look from the screen to the Doc, back to the screen. He's calling out measurements in millimeters to the nurse.

"What is it?"

Ten million years later he says: "You see those lumps on your ovary?"

We nod. It looks a little like a round, bite-sized Baby Ruth.KittyDucky.jpg

"Well," he continues, "Your ovary should be smooth. And about three sizes smaller. You have Polycystic Ovaries. You may have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, or PCOS. It would explain why you've never had regular periods. Funny thing is, you don't have any of the other symptoms. Let's get you dressed. Come in my office when you're ready and we'll talk about it."

He leaves. I sit there stunned. Then, I commence machine-gunning questions at The Varmint, He Who Holds the Biology Degree and is one of the smartest people I know: "A syndrome. I might have a syndrome? Nobody wants a syndrome. There are no good syndromes. Have you ever heard of a good syndrome? I've never heard of a good syndrome. There's Down. There's Tourette. There's Fetal Alcohol and Restless Legs. None of those are good. What the hell IS a syndrome, anyway? Am I gonna die? What am I gonna do? Huh?"

The Varmint calmly hands me my jacket and purse, puts a reassuring hand on my back, looks me in the eyes and with all the love in his heart says, "We're going to go into his office."

Tomorrow: The Doctor's Office.


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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >